


Azkaban is no place for gentle souls

by TheRogueLibrarian



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: A newspaper article, Blood and bloodied hands, Dementors, Escape, Freedom, Harry is a bit insane, Luna is there, M/M, Magic is free!!, Memory Loss, Mostly just Harry walking around, One Shot, Twist at the end?!, askaban, yay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-30
Updated: 2018-06-30
Packaged: 2019-05-31 01:52:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15109337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheRogueLibrarian/pseuds/TheRogueLibrarian
Summary: Is he mad or is everyone else mad? He would say everyone else, but he is decidedly biased, and his opinion can't be trusted since he is mad. Is the magic real, even if he says it is, and is he truly innocent? On the brink of insanity truths are put to the test, and lies are believed more often than not. But that is how life is normally, so he supposes it doesn't change a thing.Or... Harry escapes from Azkaban with barely any memories.





	Azkaban is no place for gentle souls

 

_ Azkaban is no place for gentle souls _

 

_0-0-0-0-0_

 

It makes him wonder some times.

 

...Had he screamed the first night?

 

He could hardly remember now. It felt like a life time ago that he was thrown into this terror filled place, where the walls seemed to seep despair. The screams. Oh, the screams. And the dementors... Their rattling breaths, freezing airs, and... and... In tears. He was in tears when they left him. He would break when they came, wondering time and time again if he _wanted_ to fix himself. He was...

 

How he felt. It... It reminded him of Dudley for some reason. He sometimes saw emotions as a type of tolerance, just like pain tolerance. If you're constantly beaten up then stubbing your toe won't seem to hurt as much, but if you're never hurt it would be agony. Emotions... He's always been emotionally repressed, always buried things deep down. Deep down in the dark pits of his mind, of things he thought were Occlumency barriers... but were just curtains waiting to be torn.

 

But, his emotions... they felt like that as a sheltered child who always got what they wanted, only to have everything fall down around them. One day they were having 35 presents for their birthday, making fun of their freaky cousin, eating mammoth amounts... and then there was this crushing. Crushing of spirit. Crushing of hope. A crushing despair. Because in their sheltered life suddenly their parents had died, an arm had been hacked off, all their friends hated them now.

 

A despair that was so _fresh_ , because the rest of their life was so _happy_. The more happiness you have the worse sadness hits you when it comes. But... He'd never had a happy life, and _yet_ the dementors managed to magnify his despair to maddening levels. To _delude his emotions_ into thinking that there used to be lots of happiness so this despair was just _terrible_.

 

He had Dudley emotions and Harry problems.

 

Meaning every day and night and blurred nightmare was agonising.

 

_0-0-0-0-0_

 

And Harry had only been there... how long? How long had he been trapped in hell? Where he was almost starving? Where he was put through this torture? Where the only hope he had... hope he had... he had... He didn't have any. Not anymore. Before tonight he'd had some hope. There'd been _someone_. But... he couldn't remember people. Only the horrors they put him through. Only vague words and faces. Vague memories. And he was trapped... in the crushing... crushing despair.

 

It was thick in the air. Too thick. It surrounded him everywhere. He couldn't see. Was that the despair? Or was... Had he never seen? He couldn't think... He... Time was running out... His mind was collapsing on itself... No normal human could cope through... And where was his hope...

 

_0-0-0-0-0_

 

He didn't remember much.

 

Only fragments, only the things he said over and over again. And some days he thought it was like muscle memory, like he didn't really remember, like... it wasn't real. What he was saying wasn't real. But it _had_ to be real. Because ever since... ever since... Had he always been here? But... Ever since the start of time, or his life, or his memories, he had been here... And every night... Every night... No matter how much despair he forgot... Never forgets... He said it. Over and over and over.

 

If he forgets... If he forgets... then he had nothing left. He didn't. There was nothing but... despair... and... What was he meant to say? What was... He searched deep into his mind, childish emotions, and recited.

 

_My name is Harry._

 

He had forgotten his last name a long time ago. Almost... And was he speaking out loud?

 

_I am innocent._

 

Innocent of what? What is innocence? What does it mean? He couldn't understand. He didn't... Was innocence a person? Was it his name? And no. No. It was... a state of being. Like when something was a solid or a liquid or a gas. He was innocent. He was... what did it mean? What did it-

 

_Magic is real._

 

Magic... Oh... Maaaaaaagic. It was something that sounded good in his mind. It sounded like... a deep fresh breath at the top of a mountain peak. It felt like a buzzing through his veins, the fizz of a Fire-whiskey. _What is Fire-whiskey?_ It felt like... a warm deep deep in his chest from a hug from... a friend... a real friend... and who was that? And it felt like electric zaps in between his fingers. It felt like _power_. It felt like a warm bath, with that warm hot chocolate feeling inside him and he was going to eat the marshmallows but Luna and Ginny liked them better and...

 

Who were they?

 

Who was he?

 

_My name is Harry._

 

He was Harry.

 

Who was Harry?

 

_I am innocent._

 

What did that mean?

 

_Magic is real._

 

Magic. Magic. That feeling... like the warm afterglow of the sun on your face. Not the back of your neck because he didn't have to garden because he was... away from... and what?

 

Magic. Magic. What did it mean?

 

_My name is Harry._

 

That was who he was. He was Harry. He was innocent. Magic was real. Those were the only truths that existed in the world. Except... it was a cold cold place he was at. And the despair was crushing. Crushing him inside. And he looked down at his fingers.

 

Fingers.

 

Fore finger against thumb.

 

Fingers.

 

And he closed his eyes. Despair flashing like lightning. _Boom_! Behind his eyes. A shock wave and the cities fall.

 

Fingers.

 

He rubbed them together.

 

 _Spark_. He could have sworn there was a spark. In between. Like an electric shock. And _magic was real_. There was...

 

Fingers.

 

Magic in his fingers.

 

Fingers.

 

 _I am innocent_.

 

Pain.

 

Fingers.

 

_My name is Harry._

 

Like a reflex. Rubber band. Bouncing back. Always bouncing back from what happened to him. And his mind is fine.

 

And his mind is fine.

 

He was starving from the inside out. Ribs threatened him like despair. Hunger bellowed. But he... Food. There was _food_? And he...

 

 _Fingers_.

 

He closed his eyes.

 

When had they opened?

 

 _SPARK_!

 

Magic was real. He knew it. Sparks between his fingers. And...

 

My name is Harry.

 

He was Harry. And... And...

 

It burned. It burned like a hand burned pressed onto a stove. _How did you know that?_ And it screamed to be free. Like him. It was innocent. Magic was innocent. And it needed to be let free. And he was holding on. The edge of his tether. Why did he hold? What was he clinging to? And...

 

_Fingers._

 

He opened his eyes.

 

And there it was.

 

Magic in his fingers.

 

_Magic. Set me free and I will free you._

 

His fingers caught alight. A mighty fire burned in his chest and he didn't know what it meant. He couldn't... _Harry... Harry..._ And the magic called to _him._ Because _his name_ was _Harry_! And it cooed and cried and sung to him. Like Fire-whiskey in his veins. Like fire in his heart, burning, always burning. The buzzing like a bee hive. The trembling like a humming in the floor. An earthquake.

 

_Fingers..._

 

And he **pulled** his thumb and forefinger apart. Bones crunched. Pain. White knives pulled at his insides. And he _broke_ his fingers. And _set the magic free_.

 

And he stood.

 

And he stared.

 

And there it was.

 

The door. The door. It was open for him. It was. He could see it. It was real. Magic was real. And he looked, out into the black of the night. The chilling cold that froze his bones. _Escape_. And he looked...

 

Down at his hand...

 

At his broken fingers...

 

And he could _see the magic running_.

 

Like him.

 

He was running.

 

And he could _feel the storm brewing_. Like a stew. He could cook. Where did he learn? And he...

 

_Splash._

 

He fell. Falling. Falling. Wind rushed passed his ears, long hair pulled up behind him. His green eyes opened wide. He was wild then. Just like his magic. Wild and flyinh.

 

He knew... _Set me free_. And the magic. And he... would _die_?

 

Water.

 

Everywhere.

 

Icy cold. Like the despair.

 

_Fingers..._

 

He gripped his fingers, feeling the searing hot pain... and...

 

He _was warm_.

 

He _swam_.

 

_My name is Harry._

 

_0-0-0-0-0_

 

Run.

 

Run.

 

He ran. He ran with the fierce wind drying his ocean wetness. He swum. Swam. Crossed an ocean of darkness that seeped into his skin to be free of the crushing despair. And then he ran. With the freezing harsh wind sticking his striped clothes to his skin. With the sounds of screams he'd never heard rushing in his ears.

 

Madness.

 

He'd tried to avoid the madness.

 

But there were still voices... screams...

 

_Kill the spare._

 

A high cruel cold laugh. And he didn't know what it meant. He only knew what he told himself over and over and over again.

 

_My name is Harry._

 

_I am innocent._

 

 _Magic is real_.

 

He only knew that and the memories of those dark dark walls. Glimpses of his past. A head of red hair. A _lion_? The red light of pain. A black cauldron with a figure rising. Weeks running. Running. Was that like now? Running like now? And words. Words that made no sense. Words that had lost meaning.

 

_Griffindor._

 

What did it _mean_?

 

_Patronus._

 

It felt like something to kill the despair. But Harry couldn't know. It _felt like despair_. So then how could it kill it?

 

_Boy Who Lived._

 

Lived? Boy? What did it _mean_? What was it from his past life? A life he didn't remember.

 

_Dursleys._

 

That felt like _pain_. Hands hitting him all over. Screams of 'freak' 'worthless' taunting his mind. Being locked away. In darkness. Despair. Despair.

 

Prison.

 

_Malfoy._

 

It sounded like... confusion. He... didn't know. Didn't understand. Couldn't comprehend. Was it a creature like the dementors? A Malfoy? Or... was it like a Patronus?

 

A vessel of destruction.

 

_Butter. Beer._

 

Why those two things? Butter and beer? What did it mean?

 

Butter was for bread. He could remember that.

 

Beer was an alcohol. He could remember it well, with drunken laughter and ' _off to your cupboard_ '.

 

But what did it _mean_?

 

Memories of drinking flitted through his mind. Laughter. Happiness. Family. And for once it wasn't stolen by the prowling hooded soul-suckers that stole away his life.

 

_Harry... Harry... Let me free..._

 

Magic. It was magic calling to him. Wanting freedom. And Harry... he was Harry. It wanted _him_ to set it free.

 

He lifted his numb frozen broken fingers and _squeezed_.

 

He screamed. Pain crushing at his frozen hands. The heat of his other hand like _acid_ on his skin. And the pressure of his crushed bones like a boulder in his chest. Making it hard to breathe.

 

To think.

 

And he _screamed_.

 

And _sparks of deep red energy flew from his hand._

 

It was _free_.

 

_0-0-0-0-0_

 

When he could run no longer, he walked.

 

Slowly, ever so slowly, as sleep begged to drag him down.

 

But he _would not sleep_. For if he slept he may not wake up. And if he did wake he could wake again in despair. With the dementors back. And his Dudley emotions.

 

_Who was Dudley? What was Dudley?_

 

He begged off those thoughts from his mind. Concentrated on staying awake. The ground beneath him was slippery. It was white.

 

_Ice._

 

His mind supplied.

 

_It was winter._

 

It told him. Winter? What was winter?

 

_Cold. Darkness. Alone._

 

That must be winter.

 

He let it go. Perhaps it was memories... memories from before. If he concentrated... _don't fall asleep_ he told himself. He could almost _hear someone_. Something. He closed his eyes.

 

Still standing.

 

Don't fall asleep.

 

And fell into his memory. One memory. Just so he could know why it was winter. How he knew.

 

_Golden hair, a tight smile, as she talked to the class._

 

“ _There are four seasons. We start with Winter in December, a cold month, it often snows, and is the month of death. The leaves have fallen off the trees and the animals go away to hibernate. Then move on to Spring. Spring is the month of new growth, the leaves start to grow back, the animals come out, and it transitions to Summer. Summer is the hottest month. Dry, less rain, than all the months, and is often the month for farming. After Summer there is Autumn, where the weather begins to cool and the leaves begin to fall, this transitions to Winter. Say it after me: Winter, Spring, Summer, Autumn.”_

 

_A small boy murmured with the class, his hand a fist under the table as he tried to control the pain of the bruises on his back. His hair was black and eyes a sharp green._

 

“ _Winter, Spring, Summer, Autumn.”_

 

_The teacher didn't like him. No one liked him. And he didn't know why. No one ever told him why. Well, not the truth. He could tell it was not the truth. He thought it wasn't the truth. Because if they were telling the truth that meant there was no way to **fix himself** . _

 

“ _Winter, Spring, Summer, Autumn.”_

 

And the memory ended. And he didn't know who that boy was. He didn't know how he knew that boy's thoughts. Was that boy a friend of his? An enemy? And what was wrong with the boy?

 

Had that boy been _him_?

 

Was that boy _Harry_?

 

_My name is Harry._

 

_Harry? Is that you?_

 

All the while he murmured under his breath, over and over,

 

“Winter, Spring, Summer, Autumn.”

 

Had it been _him_?

 

_0-0-0-0-0_

 

It was _cold_.

 

Just as cold as before.

 

But he _felt the cold now_.

 

Before he had been numb from the despair. Then numb from the escape. But he was no longer numb. And the cold bit into his skin like the bite of a Basilisk.

 

_Basilisk?_

 

And his feet burned, were rubbed red raw, by the hot ice underneath them. He was _barefoot_.

 

But he kept walking.

 

He had to keep walking.

 

_Why am I walking?_

 

And the song in his head, going over and over and over again, he didn't know where he knew it from. He didn't know where the seasons had stopped and the song began. When? When had he started singing. And his arms were wrapped tightly around his chest as he tried to ignore the vicious hissing wind. It was just him.

 

And he sang.

 

“Oh you may not think I'm pretty,

But don't judge on what you see,

I'll eat myself if you can find,

A smarter hat than me.”

 

And that was it.

 

The only words.

 

Four lines.

 

And he had _no clue_ what they meant.

 

_0-0-0-0-0_

 

The storm swirled around him with menace.

 

It filled his ears with the screams of his... _victims_ ?

“ _No. No! Please take me instead. Spare my son!”_

 

Had he killed a baby?

 

_I am innocent._

 

But was he really?

 

Hadn't _he_ killed people?

 

_Kill the spare._

 

Was that him? Did he order someone's death?

 

“ _This was all your fault. He was there because of you. He went through because of you. How could you have trusted a vision? He **died**. He never should have. YOU KILLED HIM!”_

 

The rumbling voice of betrayal. It felt like betrayal. But had he been the betrayer?

 

The murderer?

 

The killer?

 

_I am innocent._

 

Was he?

 

There was something in his mind. Screaming. Telling him he was innocent. That it was wrong. But it didn't sound like it was. Why else would he have been there? What other reason? Was the place of crushing despair a prison? And he had... escaped.

 

He was guilty.

 

_I am innocent._

 

He had killed them.

 

_I am innocent._

 

He was guilty.

 

_I AM INNOCENT!_

 

What other explanation was there?

 

_I AM INNOCENT!_

 

It only made sense.

 

_**I. AM. INNOCENT.** _

 

Could he?

 

But his own voice screamed out in his head of injustice, no trials, innocence, and he couldn't help but bow down to it. He couldn't help but believe it.

 

For it was the one thing that hadn't lied to him.

 

_Harry... Harry... You are free..._

 

Did magic want to be free again?

 

_Harry... Run Harry... Harry... Find it..._

 

The voice was a whispered curse. Chased him down into the depths of darkness. And as he stumbled on, through the bitter cold, he could feel himself falling down into the depths of heavy sleep.

 

Of cold.

 

And there was nothing he could do to stop it.

 

_Harry..._

 

_Set me free..._

 

_Harry..._

 

_Let me go..._

 

_Harry..._

 

_Let me give you the world..._

 

_Harry..._

 

The voice followed him down deep into slumber.

 

_0-0-0-0-0_

 

He awoke, back flat on something hard, a bump bump bump every moment or so. He lifted his head, a bump on the underside, and opened his eyes to see...

 

A girl.

 

Blonde girl.

 

Dream girl.

 

A girl from his memories.

 

“ _Are the nargles bothering you?”_

 

And he. He was lying on a sled. Being pulled by this mystery blonde girl. Up a hill side. To a crooked castle with many windows and only one door.

 

_Harry..._

 

He needed to free the magic. So he looked down at his broken... hand...

 

It was fixed.

 

It was no longer broken.

 

Healed.

 

_How would he free the magic now?_

 

He looked up to see memory friend looking at him oddly,

  
“Are you okay, Harry?”

 

_My name is Harry._

 

“My name is Harry.”

 

_I am innocent._

 

“I am innocent.”

 

_Magic is real._

 

“Magic is real.”

 

Blonde girl stopped, they had reached the top of the hill, and helped him up to stand.

 

She said,

 

“You were imprisoned. Everyone thinks you're a dark lord.”

He stared at her. _He was Harry._

 

“What is a dark lord?”

 

She looked at him oddly,  
  
“One who seeks power so he can change the world, for better or for worse.”

 

He nodded, still confused. She said,

 

“My name is Luna. You have forgotten much in your stay in prison.”

 

He nodded again,

 

“There was despair.”

 

She squinted at him.

 

He had already forgotten the name she told him, but did not think it mattered. After a long time looking at each other, him slightly defensively, and her curiously, she picked up the sled and walked over to the castle like place.

 

“This is my house. I will get us some tea.”

 

He stood there.

 

Staring at her as she walked through the door and left the sled outside.

 

Looked down at his bloodied right hand.

 

Looked back up.

 

 _Tea_?

 

_0-0-0-0-0_

 

The mug in his hand burned at the touch.

 

Tea.

 

She layed down on her seat. A wooden seat. Looked out the window. And he stood.

 

Not wanting to sit.

 

“How did you escape, Harry?”

 

_My name is Harry._

 

He didn't answer her. He didn't know her. Something in the depths of his dark dark fading mind yelled he could trust her, but he didn't think he could.

 

So he said nothing.

 

She looked over with her blue grey eyes swirling like a snow storm and he could only stare.

 

Time.

 

Time was running out.

 

_Harry... Harry set me free... Harry..._

 

And he looked at her and thought he knew her from another life.

 

A previous life.

 

Had he been born in the despair?

 

Had he used to be someone else?

 

Was he Harry?

 

_My name is Harry._

 

Was he Harry now?

 

She set her tea down on a table he hadn't noticed before. Looked at him with a sad smile.

 

_Smile?_

 

“You were gone for eight years.”

 

He stared.

 

_Years?_

 

_Harry... running out of time..._

 

Time.

 

He was _running out of time._

 

“Eight years in Azkaban.”

 

_Azkaban?_

 

''Ring Ring'' ''Ring Ring''

 

Azkaban rung a bell in his mind. Reminded him of despair and cupboards and icy winds and hungry. Oh so hungry. But he didn't know. And he couldn't think. And everything was spinning... in red... and the sun was down the hill... so much darkness...

 

_Harry... let me free..._

 

And he held up his hand.

 

Pointed it at his tea.

 

And _let the magic free._

 

_BOOM!_

 

It exploded. Sharp pieces of porcelain flying everywhere. Some cutting _her_ face. Strips of red and blood and... He was cut too.

  
She brought out a stick and pointed at the tea cup.

 

“ _Reparo._ ”

 

She looked up at him, wiping the blood from above her eyes,

 

“Would you like some bread and cheese?”

 

_I am innocent._

 

He looked at her.

 

“I am innocent.”

She nodded.

 

“I know. Would you like some bread and cheese?”

 

_0-0-0-0-0_

 

How uninteresting was her trash?

 

He was looking through her garbage. Sorting. Looking for something.

 

_Its not here... Find it..._

 

He was _looking_.

 

He was.

 

His hands came across something shiny and round. Like a penny.

 

_Like a penny._

 

Or a galleon.

 

_Or a galleon._

 

And he didn't know what either of those things were.

 

A sticky substance coated his hands reminding him of rotten fruit.

 

He looked at his hands.

 

It was rotten fruit.

 

She was out.

 

Gone.

 

Would be back.

 

Gone.

 

She told him so.

 

“Harry, there is an Order of the Phoenix meeting I must attend. I won't tell them you're here.”

 

And he didn't know what she was talking about.

 

_My name is Harry._

 

Other than that she was talking to him.

 

The house was too small and too large at the same time. It was a castle. Too big for a house. So the house wasn't a house. But it was too small to him. Since he needed to be outside. Needed to be free.

 

_Harry... I love you... set me free..._

 

And the magic made no sense.

 

Nothing made sense.

 

His own _mantra?_ made no sense.

 

The magic contradicted itself over and over and over.

 

It blamed him for its imprisonment, begged him for freedom, told him he should let it go.

 

But then it said it loved him, told him it wanted to stay, begged him to **find** _it_.

 

He didn't know what _it_ was.

 

The house was a home to some and a prison to others. He didn't know which it was for him. The walls were cold and grey, like despair, but the food was hot and rumbling, like home.

 

_Home._

 

Somewhere in the back of his mind someone told him he had never had a home.

 

“ _You think we want you here, we only ever let you stay because of the blood wards. Why do you think that no one ever says anything about what we do? They think you deserve it.”_

 

“ _They don't know.”_

 

“ _Oh yes they do. How can they not? You think they'd let you stay here without checking at all. And surely they could have come up with better protections on their own. They just don't want you.”_

 

_Harry... I want you... I love you... set me free..._

 

_0-0-0-0-0_

 

**We will get revenge Harry. We will kill them all for imprisoning us. We will show them why they never should have hurt us. We will destroy them.**

 

There was a new voice in his head.

 

Since the magic never spoke like that, he knew it was different.

 

The magic spoke like whispers on a breeze, chasing him down stream, swimming past his ears, that sometimes he didn't know what it said. It was quiet and sweet and broken. It cared for him but wanted freedom above all else. It liked the warmth of his heart but loved the cool of the wind underneath its feet. Like an innocent dove with broken wings, shackled cruelly to the ground.

 

And it only ever really wanted one thing.

 

_Freedom._

 

He thought the new voice was evil.

 

It was possessive and protective. But also destructive and cruel. It wanted them to pay for their sins. It wanted the world at its feet, burning, dead. It was harsh and loud, sometimes clouding his own thoughts, and it made him wonder...

 

Was the voice guilty of the sins he could remember?

 

Had the voice killed that baby and its mother?

 

Had the voice said _Kill the spare_?

 

But no.

 

It couldn't have.

 

Because the voice that said _Kill the spare_ , the murderer in his mind, was a high cruel voice with no love for him. _For Harry_. And he knew the evil voice, the new voice, loved him just as much as the magic did.

 

Maybe more so.

 

For the magic wanted freedom about all else, whereas the evil voice wanted him safe and so he could never be hurt again.

 

**We need to escape. It is not safe here. Luna will sell us out and we will end up back in that horrible place.**

 

And he had to agree...

 

Because the voice seemed smarter than him somedays.

 

It remembered _her name_.

 

And the magic agreed.

 

_Harry... let us go..._

 

Us.

 

Both.

 

So he escaped again.

 

_0-0-0-0-0_

 

He walked along the hill sides, pulling his tatty blanket around him, and wondered if the blonde girl had been real or a figment of his imagination.

 

Then he realised it didn't matter, and thanked his magic for the blanket he had. Since magic was the only one left to thank in his reality. Apart from the evil voice.

 

But that voice was gone now...

 

He thought it was gone.

 

It didn't rumble in his heart any longer, didn't wish for the end of all. The evil voice had tucked itself away for safe keeping, in an empty pocket of his mind.

 

_0-0-0-0-0_

 

His feet dragged across the ground.

  
Dipped in the holes he made.

 

_Did he make them?_

 

He hadn't slept in days. His eyes drooped, begged him for sleep, his muscles moaned out in agony. His legs dragged, tried to pull him to the ground, lower and lower until there was no sky left to see. The blanket tried to suffocate him in warmth, tried to torture him in the pond of twisted dreams.

 

And he walked. For there was nothing else to do.

 

And he didn't know where he was walking to.

 

Other than _away_.

 

For _away_ was his destination.

 

And the wind picked up, lifted itself off the ground and whined at him. And the magic whispered in the wind.

 

_Harry... Harry... Find it..._

 

And he knew that he would _find it_. For he had a debt to repay.

 

“ _Don't you think you owe him? Huh? He's helped you so much, he died for the cause, and now what... You're giving up? Giving in? You know if you approach Vol- You-Know-Who then you'll die straight away. He's a fucking snake faced killer. How could you say something like that after all we have done for you?”_

 

_The little boy was bigger then. He was no longer so little. Sharp green eyes flashed in sadness, whispered in betrayal,_

 

“ _You think I should die for you all?”_

 

_And the other, so much bigger than the boy who no longer seemed to big. The little boy. And the other, with red hair and blue eyes, snarled at him like a wolf to a sheep,_

 

“ _You're no good for anything else. You owe us a debt.”_

 

He almost stopped breathing.

 

Was that normal?

 

That boy - _Harry?_ \- was so cowed. So alone.

 

_Harry... you have me now... I love you... you are free... set me free..._

 

And like clockwork he lifted his hand. His still bloody hand, which was healed, and he held it palm up. _Sparks_ flew across his palm, burned his skin, and lifted up up up like a balloon.

 

_Balloon?_

 

A ball of blinding light spun around and around, tilted on its axis, and _shot skywards_.

 

Into the sun.

 

He gazed, the sun almost dipping down under the horizon under the hill, and watched as his magic zoomed away, off into freedom. It was orange, a deep orange, and bled into the ice, ready to let the stars and moon flit fleetingly across the open sky.

 

_Beautiful..._

 

His magic whispered. The wind gone.

 

The sound so clear.

 

_Beautiful..._

 

_0-0-0-0-0_

 

He came to a road. It wound around and around like a piece of string. Twisted like the tunnel that the scarlet train followed.

 

A train he remembered.

 

A train that made him think of Kings and Crosses.

 

A train that... was a train into the light of freedom, away from the dark of cupboards, only to pull him this way and that into the grey of certain death and... home.

 

_Yes... Harry... Find it..._

 

Was the road the way?

 

The hills had ended, deceived into forests. The ice was gone. Melted down into water to feed nature.

 

It was always feeding.

 

He felt... cold. Inside and out. Chilled to the very bone with betrayal and guilt and the rasping breath of despair that he had escaped from.

 

His blanket was wet.

 

 _Wet_.

 

And the ice had seeped into his bleeding red feet.

 

 _Bleeding_.

 

**We will make them pay. We will. For those bruises, pains and lonely nights trapped in darkness. No one shall be spared, for hurting US. No one.**

 

And his heart was torn more than one way, just for others to understand.

 

He felt split into thirds... fourths...

 

One was for everyone.

 

One was for frien- **betrayers**.

 

One was for famil- _...prison guards_.

 

One was for inside.

 

One was for outside.

 

But, none were for _him_. No part of himself was for him to have. His heart was torn in pieces for others to devour.

 

“ _If you hurt her I will eat your heart out, Harrykins.”_

 

“ _We say that in the nicest way we can.”_

 

 _A person split in two, two halves of the same whole. One to represent mischief, **Forge** d in the pits of insanity. One to represent sin, **Gre** e **d** , lust, echoed pain of an inconsolable taste. To have a third would have been w **Ron** g_.

 

He wanted to be whole. United.

 

_Yes Harry... my love... find it... find **me**..._

 

_0-0-0-0-0_

 

The road led to more road. On and on it went.

 

Sharp pains zapped at every step.

 

He picked rocks out of his swollen and broken feet.

 

_Harry... so close... find it... set me free..._

 

Magic called to him. Led him down the desolate road he had to follow. Cooed and called and sung and cried for him to continue. That if he continued then he would be freed, just like magic, that he would find it.

 

His feet burned. The numbness was fading.

 

All he could do was repeat and repeat in an effort to forget the pain underneath him.

 

“My name is Harry.”

 

He ignored the stinging pain that meant another rock had embedded itself into his flesh.

 

“I am innocent.”

 

Tears fell down his cheek, silent tears, and he refused to cry out.

 

No.

 

He couldn't. His throat choked him up, a rope tied tight around his neck, and he could not say anything. Anything...

 

“Magic is real.”

 

Anything but the things he did say. And said. And said over and over and over, at the same level, same tone, same volume, quite the opposite to the ups and downs and twists and turns of a roller coaster.

 

_Roller coaster?_

 

And his mind betrayed him.

 

His mind sobbed.

 

And he tried to soothe it.

 

 _Because he must_.

 

He tried to help himself. Tried to stay silent when sharp swords and burning torches yelled at his feet to burn and suffer. The despair...

 

It followed him even there. Followed his bloodied footsteps.

 

Followed him.

 

Tears did nothing to soothe his walking.

 

And he begged.

 

_Please... please... help me..._

 

And magic answered.

 

_Harry... I love you... I do..._

 

And he whispered.

 

_My feet... they burn..._

 

And magic answered.

 

_Let them... let them burn no longer... let me free..._

 

Magic swirled out of his hand. He stood. Still. Stiff. His breath coming out in short pants, the smell of dried blood and tears in his nose.

 

It _burned_.

 

Like boiling water dipping in acid. Like a red hot poker stabbed over and over and over until his toes were crushed and mutilated. Like the white fire from the angry pits of hell, out for revenge against one who had escaped.

 

It sizzled. His skin moving under his skin. Layers upon layers being picked apart and ruined for the fickle whims of magic. How could he have trusted it? How when betrayal coursed through his very veins. The veins of a killer.

 

 _I am innocent_.

 

How could he?

 

And just as he was about to scream, cry out, it stopped.

 

The burning ceased.

 

And he lifted his foot, to see the sole.

 

He looked up to the night sky above him, stars twinkling down at him like that manipulative old coot.

 

_Who?_

 

And his foot was healed. Pain free.

 

He touched it tentatively with his finger.

 

His foot was now calloused skin. Tough. Like armour.

 

 _Like armour_.

 

The magic had not lied.

 

He pulled his blanket closer around him, looked back down at the road, and continued.

 

_0-0-0-0-0_

 

A man looked at him as if he had not seen him in years.

 

He stared, lifted his hand to the glass that separated them, and tried to tell him something.

 

He stared back. Lifted his own hand. Blinked at the one who looked at him.

 

_Harry... Harry..._

 

Magic whispered in the back of his mind, called to him gently. It wanted him to keep walking. Keep walking. To find it.

 

_Find it... my love... find it..._

 

He didn't know what he was looking for, but he did as told.

 

The man stepped away. Back. Just like him.

 

Was he scared of him?

 

He was a killer after all.

 

 _I am innocent_.

 

He had killed that baby and its mother.

 

 _I am innocent_.

 

He had said the words _Kill the spare_.

 

 _I am innocent_.

 

Did the man know? Was it written on his forehead?

 

Deep red in blood, the word 'murderer', there for all to see. Was it carved into his skin?

 

The man certainly looked at him like he was guilty.

 

He stepped away, away from the glass, and started to walk.

 

The house, made of nics and nacs, almost falling over. If he had seen it on any other day the word to describe it would have been orange.

 

That day it was 'empty'.

 

 _The Burrow_.

 

His mind supplied the name, with a voice that sounded nostalgic and betrayed.

 

Funny. His inner voice hadn't had any inflection upon anything before.

 

Maybe it was healing from its time in hell.

 

The man followed his movements, stepping backwards into the empty house. He looked cautious, blank.

 

He'd thought it was a window, and he had been right, since he had seen the man through it.

 

He was rugged looking. Skinny. Face hanging off him like a badly made pretend of a person. He was gaunt and haunted looking. Young, with eyes too old. And what eyes they were... Green.

 

 _Avada kedavra_.

 

An enchanting killing green that made his mind say something. Something he forgot as quickly as he remembered.

 

The man's hair fell down past his shoulders. It was tangled and webbed, flew about in the breeze.

 

_Isn't that man inside?_

 

And his clothes... there was something familiar. The black and white striped outfit he wore... It hung loosely off his skinny frame. He looked so _fragile_ and _broken_. A vase which had already been dropped. The brown blanket that the man hugged around his shoulders.

 

_Who was he?_

 

 _Harry Potter_.

 

His mind told him, sounding sad and sort of longing.

 

Harry.

 

Harry Potter.

 

_Harry._

 

_My name is Harry._

 

“Harry Potter.”

 

He whispered to himself.

 

The man was him.

 

And he didn't recognise himself.

 

_Wasn't I just a child?_

 

**We were never a child. Not since that death. With that spell. The colour of _those eyes_.**

 

_Are my eyes not my own?_

 

Green eyes stared back at him. His eyes?

 

“ _You have your mother's eyes.”_

 

_A man dressed in black with obsidian eyes and hook nose whispered to him. Before sneering._

 

“ _A shame you're so like **him**.”_

 

_The little boy fell back down, the cold dungeon floor iced his tiny heart and hope. The black man lifted his wand again,_

 

“ _Legilimens.”_

 

For some reason all he could think about in that moment was a small golden flying ball.

 

His magic whispered.

 

_Harry... find it... I will set you free..._

 

_0-0-0-0-0_

 

The road was different.

 

It still twisted and turned, still throbbed like a living heart under his icy thickened feet. It still bled as black as night in the day with all eyes on it.

 

But the road was different.

 

_Find it... my love... set me free..._

 

His magic whispered along the breeze again. Lies or truths he didn't know. All he knew was that he was following something he couldn't see.

 

Magic hummed underneath his skin. Restless. Hopeful. It called to him to _do something_. _Find it_.

 

It wanted _it_.

 

Whatever _it_ was.

 

The sound of crinkled paper made him pause.

 

He bent down, picked up the abandoned sheet, and read.

 

_The-Boy-Who-Killed has escaped!_

_**By Rita Skeeter.** _

 

_Aurors investigated the scene of Harry Potter (A.K.A. The Dark Lord's) abandoned cell. There was no evidence of magic used, forced exit and no memory of the event from the wardens or the prisoners. Our most deceptive dark lord has vanished!_

 

_For those who don't know, those living under a rock, Harry Potter, former saviour and betrayer of the Light, has been committed to Askaban for life. His crimes were numerous, many not listed to the public. But, Hermione Granger, Minister of Magic, and former best friend of the acquitted, has shared some information on his imprisonment._

 

“ _Harry had never been quite right in the head. Always lying, always telling tales about his relatives. It was only at the end of the last war that we realised that he had been consorting with the enemy, committing war crimes and espionage. Harry had killed Dumbledore the previous year at an alleged Death Eater attack, and had then told us quite clearly he wanted to join You-Know-Who. Who, at the time, was thought to be resurrected. Which was also a lie sprouted from Harry, and other anti-pureblood extremists.”_

 

_There you have it. Words of truth from the former friend herself._

 

_It was later known, after bloodthirsty battles between 'Death Eaters' and the Order of the Phoenix, that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named did not in fact return. It was pure speculation and lies in order to weaken the ministry and have excuses to attack upstanding citizens. This was later supported by the Weasley family's version of events, their part in capturing Harry Potter, and the reveal of his domination revolving plans._

 

_For more information on Harry Potters crimes – 5_

_For more information on the 'war' – 12_

_For more information on anti-pureblood extremists – 19_

 

His own photo. Struggling in shackles, pleading innocence, was printed on the front page.

 

_0-0-0-0-0_

 

His stomach did flips as he was dragged into the tube. It swirled and sucked and clamped his eyes shut. He feared for his life in that moment.

 

Almost as much as he feared the despair.

 

_Harry... my love... find it... it is here..._

 

He reappeared in life after only a moment. Followed by the voices and cooing of magic itself. It wrapped him in a deep hug, swirled around him, and started the stirrings of love deep in his gut.

 

He wandered, followed, his magic's voice through the many rooms of what seemed like a mansion. Bookshelves passed him, whispered down secrets. The paintings of snakes on the wall hissed him warnings and greetings and both. Beds stayed still, such as tables and chairs, but he could swear that when he looked back they would have moved.

 

He found the room. Found the trail. Finally followed the road to the end.

 

_Harry... Harry... let me go... set me free..._

 

He lifted his hand. Curled it into a fist. Raised to over the pentagon of swirly symbols and glowing rocks in the centre.

 

_Harry... say... say it..._

 

_Say what?_

 

**We will be free. We will.**

 

_Say it... set me free... I love you... say it..._

 

Did he stutter? He did not know.

 

“I love you.”

 

_Say it... set me free... say it Harry... Harry..._

 

“Set me free.”

 

_Yes... Yes Harry... Say it... you hold my heart..._

 

“You hold me heart.”

 

_Harry... Harry... Say it... So I let you go..._

 

“So I let you go.”

 

Magic fled him. Rushed out. Poured out of his clenched fist. They chanted. All three of them. In his mind.

 

_Let me go._

 

_Let... me go..._

 

**Let me go.**

 

Darkness beckoned him down. Down into the pits of slumber.  
  
The first sleep in many days.

 

_0-0-0-0-0_

 

Harry opened his eyes. Feeling like he had been asleep for a long time. Silk sheets caressed his naked body. He lifted his hand, scars all down his arms, chest... The scars that had always been there.

 

The room was warm, it smelt of... jasmine and faint smoke. Harry looked over at the burning fire on the hearth. Gazed in wonder at the crackling of the flames.

 

_Home?_

 

Was he finally home?

  
The walls were a faint yellow, a single painting of a moor in the faint moonlight.

 

All his aches and pains were gone.

 

Was he finally free?

  
From Azkaban?

  
From insanity?

 

 _Creak_.

 

He turned his head to the creaking of the door. A door he hadn't noticed.

 

A man stepped inside. His eyes were a deep red, gazing at his naked body with a hunger Harry hadn't felt in a long time. _Was he full?_ His face was subtle, sculpted, like a painting. His brown hair hung loosely. Robes fitting him, creating a dashing figure.

 

Harry was too mentally exhausted to blush at his stare.

 

“My love...”

 

He rasped, a brilliant _real_ smile gracing his lips.

 

“...we are free at last.”

 

And suddenly Harry knew who this man was. This was a man he had wanted to kill for a long time. A man he had thought was his enemy. A man who had tried to kill him. A man who had killed his parents, and his godfather.

 

This was the man.

  
The magic.

 

Tom Riddle.

 

“I hope you slept well, my love, for there is much to do.”

 

The man who freed him finally.

 

Harry smiled a hesitant smile, not sure what was going on but not sure he truly cared anyway.

 

 

 

 

_0-0-0-0-0_

 


End file.
